


no scrubs

by rooonil_waazlib



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs in a Car, Closet Sex, Hand Jobs, Lingerie, M/M, this entire fic is just the eyes emoji icon but bigger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-02 11:51:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13317495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rooonil_waazlib/pseuds/rooonil_waazlib
Summary: The entrance to their building opens, then, and Steve forgets all about Jackson, the limo, the party. Bucky’s overcoat is unbuttoned, flapping open in the wind. His scarf, a deep violet that Steve absolutely couldn’t pull off, flies up a little, revealing the black bowtie he’s wearing underneath, the wine-colored suit.Steve has to swallow, once. Twice. It always catches him off-guard, Bucky’s good looks, at odd times: napping on the couch, face tucked into one elbow; flipping a crepe at the stove; during orgasm; here, now. His suit fits him perfectly—not quite tight across his muscular thighs but not exactly loose, either; his shoulders looking so broad compared to his waist. Steve breathes in and immediately regrets it, the pull of the corset reminding him just how much fun he’s planning to have with Bucky tonight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ciela is a dirty rotten enabler and this fic is all her fault so like. @god please smite her for it instead of me. xoxothx.

Normally, for a big party like this, they’d have gotten ready together, Steve and Bucky—making sure to match one another’s ties and shoes, picking their cufflinks together, helping one another tie their ties. But Bucky’s still on his way back from a mission, and it’s New Year’s Eve, so—surprise, surprise—the streets of Manhattan are madness and he’s late. The limo is supposed to arrive at nine to take them up to Tony’s Scarsdale villa and it’s eight o’clock and Steve’s got to get started.

Bucky’s been on this mission for six weeks now. He’d missed Christmas and Hanukkah and he hadn’t expected to be back in time for New Year’s—which, if he doesn’t arrive soon, he won’t be.

Steve’s been missing him so bad, last week he’d found himself on a website that made lingerie that might fit him, and in a moment of weakness he’d bought enough items to fill a box too big for even his arms. It might be considered a faux pas for him to wear any of this tonight, but. He hadn’t seen Bucky in _six weeks_. And anyway, nobody else will see any of it.

He’s just getting out of the shower when someone pounds on the bathroom door. “Babe,” Bucky calls through it, “Babe, let me in—I need to jump in the shower before we go.”

His knocking has made the hanger with Steve’s outfit swing a little on the back of the door, and Steve’s belly squirms. This is meant to be a surprise. “Use the other one,” he replies. “I’m going to need a few more minutes.”

“Babe,” Bucky repeats, reproachful, and the doorknob starts to turn.

Rushing forward, trying not to slip on the tile, Steve grabs it, stops it from moving, and leans against the door to keep Bucky from getting in. “Bucky—don’t!”

There’s a long pause; Steve can hear Bucky on the other side of the door, breathing. “Alright, Steve, baby,” he says, finally, carefully neutral. “Okay. Just—send me a picture of your tie, okay?”

“I will.”

Bucky’s footsteps pad away from the door, and Steve lets go of the knob. He pulls the panties on, business-like so he doesn’t get too distracted, then takes the corset from the hanger and inspects it, trying to strategize how he’s going to get into it.

Normally, Bucky would be here to help him with the lacing.

Finally he decides it’s best just to start; so he wraps it around his back, backwards, so he can get the lacing at least partway tightened before he spins it. Back to the mirror, straining his shoulders, he tightens it and tightens it, cinching his waist in a little tighter and then loosening again at his hips, just a touch, just enough to move in.

He ties the ribbon just above the top edge of the panties, and takes a second to cup his— _titties_ , Bucky’s voice says in his mind—to make sure the underwire on the thing isn’t digging anywhere. Then he turns to the mirror to make sure it’s symmetric.

It’s a pretty thing, daring, black with a subtle gold brocade pattern. The two panels on either side of his belly button are made of black mesh—through it Steve can just make out the freckle on the left side of his tummy, the one Bucky likes to kiss so much. The corset nips his waist in, just a touch. Steve has to take a few deep breaths as he thinks about Bucky’s big hands around him. The panties are black, too, plain fabric with a little gold bow at the top.

He turns to check the ribbon—black too—and the back of the panties, that same black mesh, and then, rushing a little so he doesn’t have to stuff a full-blown stiffy into one leg of his pants, rolls on his black stockings and reaches for his suit.

Tony’s New Year’s Eve do is the stuff of legend; he holds it annually at some villa he owns up in Scarsdale. The invitation Steve and Bucky had received in the mail would serve as their entrance ticket; the envelope had been full of glitter, but Tony had assured them that this was a classy event and that they should dress to their nines. Steve suspects that some guests will be dressed to their twelves and thirteens.

Steve’s suit matches his underthings. He pulls on the crisp white shirt first, buttons it before pulling on his black pants. Flipping up the shirt collar, he pulls his tie around his neck. It’s black, too, with a gold art deco pattern on it—Tony will tell him it matches his birth certificate.

He smooths his collar back down and sends Bucky a Snapchat, just his mouth, the tie, his shoulders. Bucky sends him the emoji that just looks like a big pair of eyes, and then a second later: _i’ll pick cufflinks for us_.

Smiling, Steve drops his phone into his pocket and pulls on his jacket, giving himself one last once-over in the mirror and smoothing his hair before opening the bathroom door and stepping out. He’d left his patent black oxfords just outside, and he stoops to pick them up, carries them to the edge of the bed and sits to put them on and tie them.

For a few minutes he fiddles with his open cuffs, then pulls out his phone to check the time. The limo Tony is sending for them is supposed to arrive in six minutes, and while he can’t hear the shower running anymore, he’s not sure Bucky’s aware of the time crunch.

Then, sure enough, just as he’s about to go knock and let Bucky know, his phone blings: _Hello Captain, this is Jackson, the driver. I’m waiting outside for you and Mr. Barnes._

Steve goes to the window and peeks out. Sure enough, down on the street sits a sleek black limo. He can see the round top of the hat the driver is wearing, standing next to the car.

He types out a quick reply— _be out in a few_ —and then heads for the other bathroom. “Bucky,” he calls through the door, “the car is here.”

“Five more minutes,” Bucky calls back. “And then I need to get the cufflinks.”

Steve’s phone blings again: _I’m double parked_.

“We don’t really have that long,” Steve says. “The driver says he’s double-parked.”

Behind the door, Bucky snorts. “Get on out there and guard him from any unfriendly cops, then.” There’s a clatter, and Bucky swears. “Go be Captain America for ten minutes. I’ll catch up.”

Steve groans, just to hear Bucky laugh, then sighs. “Don’t take forever,” he calls, and heads for the hall closet. There, he pulls on his favorite black scarf and then his overcoat, the one that makes him look like a banker, with the flat, round silver pin on the lapel. Well—it looks like silver. It’s actually a melted-down and hammered-flat piece of Bucky’s old arm. Tony’d even pressed a star into the face, just a single subtle line that you’d have to be good and close to notice.

The driver, Jackson, tips his hat to Steve when he exits the building. He’d been standing up nice and straight, not smoking or looking around to kill time. He reaches for the car door handle to open it for Steve, but he waves him off. “Bucky will be down in a minute,” Steve says. “I’ll wait for him here.”

Jackson nods—“yes, sir,”—and returns to parade rest.

For a moment, they stand in silence, Steve looking up and down the street. It’s cold—of course—but not snowing. The sidewalks are slushy. Down here in the low part of Manhattan the decorations are mostly blue and white and yellow. Jackson stands looking at the door to the building.

“So are you—uh, one of Tony’s staff?” Steve asks.

“Yes, Captain,” Jackson says, turning to look at Steve. He’s pretty young, Steve thinks, his hair cropped short under his hat. “I’ve been Mr. Stark’s personal driver for, oh, six months or so.”

“What happened to Harry?”

“He retired, sir.”

Steve nods, bringing his shoulders up around his ears as a gust of chilly wind slides along the road. The light in their apartment, three floors up, goes out. “Bucky should be down in a minute,” he says, gesturing up to the window and quickly sticking his hand back into his pocket.

“Yes, sir.” Jackson reaches for the car door again, pulling it open and then holding it most of the way closed again.

Steve grins. He can see why Tony likes this kid, with enough attention to detail to keep the warm air inside the car.

The entrance to their building opens, then, and Steve forgets all about Jackson, the limo, the party. Bucky’s overcoat is unbuttoned, flapping open in the wind. His scarf, a deep violet that Steve absolutely couldn’t pull off, flies up a little, revealing the black bowtie he’s wearing underneath, the wine-colored suit.

Steve has to swallow, once. Twice. It always catches him off-guard, Bucky’s good looks, at odd times: napping on the couch, face tucked into one elbow; flipping a crepe at the stove; during orgasm; here, now. His suit fits him perfectly—not quite tight across his muscular thighs but not exactly loose, either; his shoulders looking so broad compared to his waist. Steve breathes in and immediately regrets it, the pull of the corset reminding him just how much fun he’s planning to have with Bucky tonight.

“You cold, sugar?” Bucky asks, smiling at him as he joins Steve at the curb.

“Yes,” Steve tells him. “You’ve taken forever and now I’m frozen half to death.”

Bucky tips his head back to laugh, and oh, Steve’s dignity cracks a little more. Then Bucky pulls out a small box. “Hands,” he orders. Steve doesn’t even think to disobey, watching Bucky’s face as he pushes Steve’s overcoat sleeves out of the way and fastens one, then the other cufflink. Bucky’s hair is a little longer than normal, the ends just curling at his collar. He smells subtly of aftershave and toothpaste. Steve suppresses a gasp as Bucky’s cold fingers trace the warm vein in his wrist.

“Thanks,” Steve manages, blushing when he realizes he sounds like a besotted teenager. Bucky winks and places a hand at his back, gesturing for him to get into the limo first. Steve goes before he embarrasses himself further.

It’s nice and toasty in the limo. The partition has already been raised, and there’s an open bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket built into the windowsill. The ceiling is one big screen, projecting what Steve suspects is the night sky over the city—if you could see past the light pollution. There’s music playing from somewhere, some kind of low R&B that makes Steve think of short skirts.

Steve settles on the long bench along the side of the car and unbuttons his coat and suit jacket, already heating up. He can feel the boning of his corset digging into his pelvis a little bit.

Bucky climbs in too, settling leisurely on the seat next to Steve and throwing his arm over the back of the bench, rubbing his thumb over Steve’s shoulder. “You look good,” he says as the door shuts. “Really good, my darling.” Steve likes it when Bucky calls him pet names, yeah—but it’s nothing, _nothing_ to when Bucky adds “my” to those pet names. There’s…just something about it. He’s Bucky’s. Bucky’s his. He loves that. Bucky looks around and makes an impressed face. “Cristal,” he comments, pulling the bottle from the ice bucket.

Taking the glass Bucky offers him, Steve sips at it. It’s lovely, dry, fizzy along his soft palette. Bucky returns to his seat and sips his own. “It’s nice,” Steve says.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. His palm lands on Steve’s knee, and for a few minutes they ride in silence, drinking. Steve’s dizzy, from the champagne or the corset restricting his breath just that little bit or—or Bucky, probably, the scent of him, his body so close after having been gone so long, his hand warm on Steve’s leg.

Finally, finally he finishes his champagne and puts aside his glass. A moment later, Bucky does the same, his fingertips digging in a little on the inside of Steve’s leg. Leaning into Bucky’s body, Steve turns into him and gives him a kiss. “Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, pressing back into him, “yeah, hi, baby. I missed you. Did you miss me?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. He’s sweating already, in the warm car, in his overcoat and suit and lingerie, Bucky’s hands on him. “Buck, yeah, I missed you tons.”

He can feel Bucky’s smile against his mouth. He nudges a little closer, his back arching, and Bucky reaches under his coat. Slipping his tongue into Bucky’s mouth, he leans into him, gasping as Bucky’s hand slips in under his suit jacket and down along his waist. He can barely feel it, the heat of Bucky’s hand, and he misses it, a little—but feeling Bucky’s breath in, the way he tips his head a little…

“Oh, _baby_ ,” Bucky mumbles, his hand tracing up Steve’s hip to the dip in his waist again, his fingers following one of the corset’s bones, “baby, what are you wearing?”

Steve doesn’t answer, doesn’t know how to explain. But Bucky doesn’t seem to need it; he kisses Steve harder, his left hand holding the back of his neck to keep him where he wants him. His other hand deftly works open two of Steve’s shirt buttons and slips inside.

Trying not to moan aloud, Steve nudges a little closer, one hand landing on the inside of Bucky’s thigh. Bucky nips him for it, his fingers so hot over the mesh panel on Steve’s corset.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky mutters, strangled, and suddenly pulls back, panting, to look at Steve. “I’m going to tell the driver to turn around.”

It makes Steve smile—for once it’s Bucky whose composure has cracked. “We can’t,” he says. Bucky’s mouth closes, his eyebrows drawing down. Steve grins, leans in to kiss him again, inches his fingers up Bucky’s leg. “I promised Nat. She said she didn’t think she could bear it without us.”

 “Sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, reaching for him again, tucking his face into Steve’s scarf and sucking gently at his pulse. Steve shivers, letting him, tightening his hand on Bucky’s thigh. “I want to get my hands on you. Baby, let me take you home.”

Suddenly, Steve’s burning all over. This isn’t going quite according to plan—he hadn’t expected to be quite as flustered as he is—but it seems okay. He pulls off his overcoat and his suit jacket, taking half a second to make sure the limo’s partition is shut before scrambling up to straddle Bucky’s lap.

Bucky makes a pleading noise deep in his throat. “Baby,” he says again.

“We’re going to the party,” Steve says. Bucky stares up at him. “But I think we got some time to kill on the way there.”

Bucky blinks up at him. Steve’s known for a long time that Bucky wouldn’t stay with him if he didn’t really love him, but seeing him like this, the softness of his eyes and mouth, looking up at him like there’s nothing else in the world—Steve feels it, hard, deep down in his belly.

Then Bucky blinks, and seems to regain his footing. He reaches for Steve, hands sliding up his thighs to his hips and up to the dip in his waist and then up further. His thumbs spread over Steve’s chest and Steve breathes in, wanting to feel it on his nipples, even though he knows the corset’s fabric is too thick for that. “Sugar,” Bucky says, his voice soft, inches from Steve’s mouth, “you drive me _wild_.”

Steve moans a little and falls into him, sucking on Bucky’s tongue as it slips between his lips and into his mouth. He rocks forward as Bucky grabs at his ass with one hand, the other gripping hard at the back of his neck.

Bucky grinds up into him, setting off an oil fire along Steve’s skin. He gasps against Bucky’s lips and digs his fingers into Bucky’s shoulder as Bucky bites at his earlobe. “I want you so bad,” Bucky murmurs.

“I want,” Steve replies, breaking off when Bucky sticks his hand back into Steve’s shirt and upward, straining the buttons as he tucks his thumb under the top edge of the corset. His thumbnail scrapes across Steve’s nipple and he swears. “Bucky, I want it in my _mouth_.”

Bucky groans, the fingers of his metal hand digging into Steve’s ass so hard he thinks he might bruise. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, sweetheart, I want it in your mouth, too.”

Scrambling, trying not to fall over in the moving car, Steve gets off Bucky’s lap and between his legs while Bucky unzips and gets his dick out. It gets harder in Bucky’s hand as Steve looks up at him. Saliva floods his mouth—it’s been six whole weeks without this, without the taste of Bucky on his tongue, his hands in his hair.

Bucky traces his thumb over Steve’s lip. “I forgot how pretty you look like this.” Opening his mouth, Steve waits, lets Bucky tip his cock forward and between his lips. Salt bursts over Steve’s tongue as he opens his mouth wider, takes Bucky’s cock deeper, and Bucky drags his lower lip between his teeth and flexes his hips, just once.

Suddenly desperate for it, Steve leans forward, planting one hand for stability on Bucky’s thigh, the other collecting a fistful of the loose tail of Bucky’s dress shirt and holding on as he takes as much of Bucky’s cock as he can into his throat. “ _Shit_ ,” Bucky says, his voice tight. He tucks his fingers into Steve’s collar and tugs just a little. “Jesus, _fuck_ , baby, I wish I could see what you’re wearing under all this.”

Beginning to regret not letting Bucky turn the limo around, Steve bobs his head, hot, shuddering when Bucky’s hand in his collar pulls again, cutting off his air for a second. Bucky lets out a harsh breath and then something close to a growl. Steve’s forehead presses to Bucky’s belly and he hears Bucky’s head hit the window.

“Honey, you do this so good,” Bucky rumbles, letting go of Steve’s collar to run his hand up through his hair. “You look so, so pretty gagging on my dick.” His hips press up into Steve’s face again, and again. “It’s just too bad—” he gasps— “we’re goin’ somewhere nice, and I can’t get it all over your face. You always look so sexy that way, with my come all over you.”

Whimpering, Steve lets go of Bucky’s shirt and presses the heel of his hand to his own crotch. He wants that, bad, even though he knows he can’t have it. He sits back a little, just enough that he can look up at Bucky. There are spots of color high on his cheeks, his lower lip between his teeth. Just one trickle of sweat slides down his temple. His hair is still perfectly styled.

Bucky’s eyes open as Steve wraps a hand around the part of his cock that isn’t in his mouth. His pupils are huge, and he gasps a breath in, and another, and Steve, knowing what’s about to happen, relaxes his throat a little more, takes him deeper.

“Sweetheart, honey— _fuck_ —” Bucky’s hips lift off the seat and roll a little, heat spilling into Steve’s throat. Sucking him through it, Steve watches his face, the way his eyes squeeze shut for a second like it hurts, the reckless redness of his mouth.

Finally Bucky’s body begins to relax, muscle by muscle, and he seems to melt into the seat. His eyes open again, and he reaches out to run both hands through Steve’s hair. He doesn’t say anything, but watches as Steve climbs up into his lap, sighs into the kiss Steve puts on his mouth.

Between them they’re just getting Steve’s pants unbuttoned when the limo slows and the music stops playing; instead the driver’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Mr. Stark’s house is there on the right,” he says. “This is the best view of the decorations, if you’re interested.”

Steve whines as Bucky’s hands slowly do up his fly again. “I’d ask him to go around the block if I thought it would take less than an hour,” Bucky murmurs, giving Steve a sweet, slow kiss.

“Do it,” Steve replies, “Buck—please—”

But it’s too late. The limo stops. Bucky nudges him aside so he can button his pants before the driver opens the door.

The door opens, down at the other end of the limo. Nobody sticks their head in, but camera flashes erupt outside, as if there’s a whole string of paparazzi to walk through to even arrive at the house.

Bucky leans over and gives him one more kiss, pulling Steve’s forgotten suit jacket and overcoat into his lap so he doesn’t forget them, and goes. Numbly, Steve pulls on his jacket and then his coat, tucking his scarf in and buttoning up so nobody sees the rapidly deflating tent in his pants.

Then, sighing, he goes.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve had expected overwhelming lavishness, but not, he has to admit, quite like this. When he finally gets out of the limo, looping his arm around the one Bucky’s holding out to him, he’s greeted by the flash of a thousand cameras pointed directly at them.

“Guess this is the party to be at,” Bucky says, leaning over to murmur it in Steve’s ear. “You feeling alright, my sweet?”

As Bucky pulls out of his personal space, freezing air rushes in to replace his warm breath on Steve’s neck. He shivers, though he’s thankful for it, in a way: by the time they get inside he’ll be too cold for his body to let his dick hog all his blood.

Voices call out to them as they make their way up the walk to the front door. Three or four of Tony’s Iron Man suits wrapped in fairy lights are holding sentry there, keeping the photographers out; and as Steve and Bucky draw closer two step aside to let them through.

It’s not better inside—though it’s not really worse, either, just different. Everything sparkles, a little, and if it sounds tacky it isn’t. More fairy lights are strung along the doorways, mistletoe still hung in opportune places. The room is packed with people in their holiday best: tuxedos and gowns and capes and tails. Candles float in an enormous bowl of punch to the left of the door; to the right there’s a coat check.

Once they’ve left their overcoats behind (Bucky giving Steve a painfully suggestive once-over as he hands his to the clerk), they follow the stream of people to the punch and then further into the house. Steve can’t help examining the coat check card. It seems to be made of actual gold.

They pass through three separate parlors: in one, the lights are low and there’s a disco ball hovering near the ceiling while people dance. The ball keeps moving around, first to the east corner, then the north, then in elegant loops toward the south. In the next there’s piles and piles of food, whole legs of cured ham, vats full of soups, salads probably flown in from wherever lettuce grows. In the last parlor, people are draped on cushy furniture, sharing loveseats and getting cozy in armchairs.

This is where they find Natasha. She’s stretched across a big royal blue chaise longue, picking grapes off a plate held for her by a man kneeling on the floor. Another man stands behind the chaise, chatting, holding two glasses of champagne. As Steve and Bucky watch, Natasha lifts her hand, her arm a long pale graceful brushstroke, and the man hands over one of the glasses for her to sip from.

She spots them, and gets up, taking her champagne with her. Her whole dove grey gown glitters as she moves. Neither of the men take her seat—and when another woman moves to sit, they shoo her off. Natasha would have to be looking over her shoulder to see the interaction, but somehow Steve’s sure she’s aware that it happens.

“Don’t you two clean up nice,” she says, standing on tiptoe while Steve, and then Bucky, lean down to let her kiss their cheeks.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Bucky replies, letting go of Steve’s arm to run his hand over her sheer cap sleeve. She tips her head, twitches her eyebrows smugly. “Who are those guys?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m not sure,” she admits. “Useful, though, huh?” She eyeballs their drinks. “I can’t believe you’re drinking Tony’s punch. I watched someone accidentally drip a little on a candle—that shit went up like gasoline.”

Steve hasn’t actually tasted it yet. He looks down into his glass, tipping it in a slow circle. The purplish liquid moves funny, he thinks, not quite as fast as water. There’s an odd rainbow sheen across the top of it, broken by ice cubes. It smells sharp, almost metallic.

When he turns to look at Bucky, he looks equally as disconcerted as Steve feels. “This looks like something that’s going to give me hallucinations,” Steve says.

Bucky takes his glass. “Yeah, baby,” he agrees. “I’m going to find a plant to pour it in to. How about some champagne instead?”

“Bucky—don’t destroy Tony’s plants!”

Grinning, Bucky swirls the glasses theatrically. “It won’t destroy them,” he says, “I don’t think.” He eases away, avoiding Steve’s hand when he grabs for him. “It’s scientific curiosity, sweetheart! Tony will appreciate that.”

Nat slips a hand into Steve’s elbow when he goes to follow him. “Tony probably _will_ appreciate that,” she says. “Come and have some grapes.”

Steve lets her lead him to the chaise, and they sit, upright this time so there’s room for both of them. Natasha pops a couple of grapes into her mouth and motions for Steve to take some too. The man holding the plate extends his arm so Steve can reach. “Uh, thanks…dude,” Steve says, and winces. He’s never been in a situation quite like this.

“Tony said there’s room enough for all of us to stay the night,” Natasha says, leaning back in her seat and eating another grape.

“Oh yeah?” Steve asks. In a way, that sounds nice, being able to stay at the party a little later, just have to walk upstairs and find a bed waiting—but the boning of his corset digs into his rib as he turns to look at Natasha, and he remembers why he’d rather go home.

Nat smirks at him like she knows what he’s thinking. “He showed me the room he’d let me use—the bed rotates and there’s a mirror on the ceiling. Looked like the set of a 70’s porno.”

Steve grimaces and eats a grape. He doesn’t even want to imagine what Tony might leave for he and Bucky—probably one of those 1-ton drums of lube and a sex swing—and he hopes, a little, that Bucky doesn’t encounter Tony on his quest for champagne and dead plants. He’s pretty sure Bucky will want to see their room, and that just sounds like something Steve should avoid.

Of course, this is the moment that Bucky strolls back into his line of sight, and Steve begins to doubt himself once more. He cuts an imposing figure, coming their way, tall and broad, two champagne flutes suspended delicately between the fingers of his metal hand. His lips are still reddened, his pace relaxed. Steve can feel his heart beating, hard enough that the corset feels tighter suddenly. His dick twitches, reminding him that he hasn’t gotten his yet.

There’s only about two-thirds of a seat next to Steve, but Bucky takes it, pressing himself all along Steve’s side so he doesn’t fall off. He slips his hand around Steve’s waist and lets him take a glass of champagne. “Cheers, sugar,” he says, tipping his glass against Steve’s and then setting it down on the grape plate held by the kneeling man.

Steve leans into him a little bit, unable to help himself. Bucky’s so warm, though Steve can barely feel the heat of his hand through his shirt and corset. Bucky steals one of Steve’s grapes.

“What happened to the plant?” Natasha asks, tipping her head back so that she can see Bucky around Steve.

“You know, it’s strange,” Bucky says, taking another grape and holding it up to Steve’s lips, not even looking at him but over his shoulder at Natasha, “it actually sprouted new buds when I poured the punch into it.”

The back of Steve’s neck is sweating, but he eats the grape rather than calling attention to it. Bucky, still looking at Nat, gives his lip a little stroke with his thumb. Steve resists the urge to stick his tongue out and lick it.

By the time he finally collects himself enough to rejoin the conversation, he’s lost track of it. It seems like Tasha is telling Bucky about her latest mission, somewhere in rural Bhutan. Steve tries to focus, but Bucky’s tucked his fingers under Steve’s thigh, his thumb running back and forth over the spot where, under his pants, Steve’s stockings end.

Steve’s heartrate ratchets up a little more; he’s not sure that Bucky’d known, before this moment, that he’s wearing stockings. By the way Bucky nudges his body a little bit against Steve’s, the way his other hand falls to the inside of Steve’s thigh, he’s thinking about it, too.

“Did you see that leg of ham?” Natasha asks. Her eyes are on Steve, like she knows exactly what’s going on inside his head and pants. Knowing her, she probably does. “I’m going to go see how much ham I can stuff into my mouth at once. I’ll see you two in a bit, maybe.”

Her two men trail after her when she goes, leaving Steve and Bucky alone. Bucky nudges at Steve until he moves further up the chaise, further and further until Bucky’s pinned him to the arm of it, leaning in to kiss at Steve’s ear.

“Bucky,” Steve protests, flushing, as Bucky rubs two fingers against the inside of his leg, where the stocking’s lace top sits. “Bucky, we’re in a room full of people.” It sounds weak, even to his ears.

“Baby, I want you,” Bucky replies, like it’s an answer to what Steve’s said. He nudges his nose against Steve’s temple and then gives his earlobe a gentle bite. “You’re wearing stockings, aren’t you? You got a whole getup on for me and you ain’t let me see it yet. _Baby_ , can you blame me?”

The answer is no, honestly, or Steve wouldn’t have gotten on his knees in the back of a limo. But they can’t, not here, if not least because there have to be at least two thousand smartphones in this room alone. “Hey—Bucky, look, it’s Sam,” Steve says instead.

Bucky turns, finally, his hand sliding up Steve’s hip to his waist. “Oh,” he says, sounding a little distracted still, “we should go say hi. You think he’s still mad at me for tripping him while he was flirting with Thor?”

“I mean, probably,” Steve says, managing to squirm off the chaise and out from under Bucky’s hands. When he turns, Bucky is blinking at the spot where he’d been sitting, his hands making compulsive little grabby gestures like he can’t believe there’s nothing there for him to hold. “You should apologize. Come on.”

Licking his lips, Bucky gets to his feet, slowly, tugging on his lapels and buttoning his jacket. He clears his throat and his shoulders settle, and in an instant the hungry look leaves his face and he’s the picture of a gentleman once more. He holds his hand out for Steve to take. “I don’t want to apologize.”

“Well, you have to.”

“Yes, Ma,” Bucky grumbles, letting himself be pulled along in Steve’s wake. From behind he pinches Steve’s butt, and, although they’re only a few feet from reaching Sam, Steve stops and turns.

“If you ever call me _Ma_ again, especially while you’re grabbing my ass, I swear on your mother’s grave I will lay you to rest right next to her,” Steve says.

“Okay, darling, alright.”

Steve squints at Bucky for a second, not believing him, but when Bucky’s bland smile doesn’t go away he turns back toward Sam. “You’re so sweet to me,” Bucky says, soft, and Steve turns again.

“It won’t be a peaceful rest, Bucky.”

“Yeah, honey,” Bucky says, grinning, “I know it won’t.” He kisses Steve’s nose and rubs his thumb over the back of Steve’s hand, and nudges him.

Still glaring a little bit, Steve turns again and pulls Bucky a few steps further, to where Sam is nibbling on a cracker covered in salmon pâté and caviar. “Hi Sam,” Steve says, forcefully, while Bucky sneaks a hand around his waist. “How are you? Enjoying the party?”

“Hey, Steve.” Sam jerks his chin at Bucky. “You here to apologize?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows, tucking his hand into Steve’s front pocket. It must be a bit of a reach, all the way around Steve’s waist, but when he rubs his fingertips against the thinner fabric of Steve’s pocket he can’t help but lean into him a little. “What do I need to apologize for?” Bucky asks.

Sam narrows his eyes. “Should I start from the beginning?” he asks. “Well, the first time we met, you ripped my wing off and dropkicked me off a helicarrier.”

“I thought we were past that.” Bucky’s other hand moves up to cup Steve’s hip so that he’s standing just behind and a bit to the right of Steve, his left foot between Steve’s two. “Is there anything more recent I should be apologizing for?”

Glaring, Sam stuffs the rest of his salmon cracker in his mouth. “How about when you tripped me the other day while we were running together?”

“I didn’t trip you. You were distracted,” Bucky says, and steals Steve’s champagne so he can have a sip. When he hands it back, he runs his fingers up the outside of Steve’s hand, up to his wrist, which he squeezes, just for a second. Steve’s collar feels tight.

Sam rolls his eyes. “You know, you could at least have the decency to take your hands off him for like five seconds. You’re in public, did you know that?”

“So, Sam,” Steve says, loudly, as Bucky rests his hand on the side of Steve’s neck. Steve clears his throat. “What’s new?”

“Well,” Sam says, pointedly turning away from Bucky. “Thor promised to be my midnight kiss, so Bucky tripping me the other day didn’t even work.”

Steve’s sweating, bad; Bucky’s fingers are rubbing gently at his thigh through his pocket, at his throat just above his collar. “Oh, really? That’s great. I know you’ve been—uh, hoping for that for a while.”

Bucky says, “I didn’t trip you,” and lets his hand fall from Steve’s throat, along his collarbone and down his side, into the dip of his waist and then gently over the curve of his hip, and suddenly Steve is completely on fire, his nipples hardening against the brocade of his corset.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he says, and before either Sam or Bucky can say anything he shakes Bucky’s hands off and makes a beeline for—anywhere.

Weaving between people, he leaves his champagne on a side table somewhere and slips through a door and another until he’s in an empty hall. Here, finally, he stops, takes a deep breath, tries to collect himself.

He’s just thinking about turning back, heading back into the dull roar of the party when Bucky appears around the corner, hands in his pockets. “There you are, sweet thing,” he says, reaching for Steve, smiling.

Steve parries, taking hold of his wrists so he can’t touch him. “Come on, Bucky,” he sighs. “You—Sam’s right, we’re in public.”

Bucky takes a look around. “I don’t see no one.” He reaches out again, and though Steve’s still holding his wrists, he doesn’t stop him from cupping his face in both hands and leaning in for a slow kiss. “ _God_ , you look incredible. I bet everything under that suit’s even better.”

Distracted by Bucky’s mouth, Steve accidentally lets go of his wrists so he can touch his shoulders, his chest. Before he realizes it, Bucky’s got one arm around his waist, bending him a little backward like some kind of damsel in distress. His other hand is sneaking open his suit jacket, slipping inside to squeeze, hard, at his hip, dig his fingers under the corset’s hem through the fabric of his pants.

He hardly notices that Bucky’s walking him backward until a door clicks shut and they’re in total darkness—a closet, from the feel of it, from the heavy fabric pressing his shoulder. “Bucky,” he hisses, “what are you—”

“Don’t you want it, my baby?” Bucky murmurs, biting gently at his earlobe. “You got me off so good in the limo, I thought I’d return the favor. Just quick, nothing messy. Just a handie.” Steve is, unfortunately, already fully hard, on a hair trigger, and he sighs when Bucky’s fingers trace his erection through his pants. “Sweet thing, I want my hands on you.”

Here, now, in this closet, the party two halls away fading already, Steve shudders, which Bucky interprets correctly. Deft even in the darkness, he gets Steve’s fly open and his hand inside, his fingers tracing the hard bottom edge of the corset. “Baby,” he mumbles, “oh, I can’t wait to get your clothes off.”

“Me too,” Steve whispers. He leans back, hard, against the wall behind him and hooks his heel around Bucky’s lower leg as Bucky gets his dick out. It’s so dark he’s completely blind, but when Bucky’s thumb rubs over his lips he kisses it.

“Lick,” Bucky tells him, so he sticks his tongue out, lets Bucky drag his palm over it.

He tips his head back against the wall as Bucky wraps his hand back around him. “Bucky,” he gasps, gripping his lapel in one hand, his other hand wrapping around Bucky’s forearm.

Bucky nips at his throat, just above his collar. “Yeah, honey,” he rumbles, “I wish I could see your face right now. I bet you’re nice and pink, huh?” Steve is, he can feel it as Bucky runs his fingertips up the vein on the underside of his cock. He pants into Bucky’s ear. “Sugar, I want you under me. Can you imagine, kitten? When we get home I’m gonna get this pretty suit off you and see what you’re hiding from me, and then I’m gonna get it all good and dirty.”

Steve arches into him, probably tearing Bucky’s suit with how hard he’s holding onto him. He says his name, more breath than voice, and Bucky moans, his voice right up in his ear. It makes every hair on Steve’s body stand up, his nipples rubbing sensitive against the inside of his corset making him whine.

He’s close embarrassingly fast, though he’s pretty sure he can’t be blamed for it. He’d been halfway there before Bucky had even gotten him into the closet. The filth Bucky’s been murmuring into his skin isn’t helping.

“Darling, dearest, come on,” Bucky breathes, kissing at the place where Steve’s jaw meets his throat. “I’m gonna take you home and fuck you absolutely stupid, huh? Gonna have to throw out all these pretty things you’re wearing, even those stockings, when I’m through with you.” Steve clutches at him—what Bucky’s saying is getting to him even more than his hand jerking him, his other hand grabbing his ass, pulling his cheeks apart so Steve feels real empty. Bucky chews on his earlobe, groaning a little. “God, I’d fuck you right here if I thought you could keep yourself from screaming. _Oh_ , my pretty darlin’.”

Steve comes, then, gasping Bucky’s name, pulling on him. Bucky kisses him, both of them breathing hard, until Steve finally calms enough to loosen his grip. Bucky rocks back from him, and Steve lets him go, though he doesn’t quite want to.

“That feel good, sugar?” Bucky asks. Steve can feel his hand between them, reaching into his inside pocket.

“Don’t tease,” Steve replies, but the effect is ruined by the fact that he’s still a little breathless. “Ah— _Bucky_ , what the fuck?”

Bucky grins at him, his phone’s flashlight illuminating him pale and sharp in the darkness. “Hold this for me, would you, darling?” Instead of kissing him like Steve wants, Bucky passes over his phone and starts digging in the coats.

“Bucky—what are you—” Steve stops when Bucky holds up his other hand, wiggles his fingers. “Bucky.”

“What?” Bucky asks, still digging in pockets. “Sweetheart, you got me all dirty. I just need to— _no_.”

“No, what?” Steve asks.

Shoving at the hangers, Bucky waves for Steve to point the flashlight into the inside of a jacket that he’s holding open. _Tony Stark_ , it says, sewn into the lining of the coat in goddamn _rhinestones_.

“Bucky, no,” Steve says, but it’s too late—Bucky’s already smearing his come all over the inside of the jacket. “ _Bucky!_ ”

Smirking, Bucky leans over and leaves a biting kiss on his mouth. “Ain’t my fault,” he says, “really, honey, baby, sweet, if he didn’t want jizz all over his stuff then he shouldn’t have done _this_.” He gestures to the rhinestones, glittering blue-white in the flashlight. Humming a little, he finishes wiping his hand and takes his phone back, casting them back into blackness when he turns off the light. He puts his hands on Steve’s face and kisses him, slow, maybe a little longing. “Take me home soon,” he requests.

Steve nods as Bucky opens the closet door, and they step out. He hadn’t realized until just now how hot it had been in the closet, and he takes a deep breath of cool air.

“ _Ten…nine…eight…_ ”

Bucky looks at him, grinning, and Steve makes a face back. They rush back along the hall and through into the second parlor. The balcony doors are open—more accurately, it seems like the entire wall has vanished, floor-to-ceiling windows completely missing—and everyone is crowded outside, watching showers of blue and red.

“ _Five…four…three…_ ”

There’s no way they’ll make it onto the balcony; it’s too full. Bucky pulls him around, there, in the middle of the empty parlor.

“ _Two…one—_ ”

Taking Steve’s face between his hands, Bucky kisses him, kisses him until Steve’s toes curl, until he’s nothing but breath and warmth and fizz.

They kiss until someone jostles them on their way back into the house, and then they break apart. Steve opens his eyes; Bucky smiles at him, winks with one grey-brown eye. “Happy new year, my sweet love,” Bucky says. “What a way to start the year, huh?”

Steve leans into him, enough that Bucky rocks back with his weight and has to put an arm around him. “The best,” he replies. “The best way, Bucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my tumblr](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> [plz reblog the chapter post thank](https://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/post/169873572002/no-scrubs-rooonilwaazlib-captain-america)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe this fic is just 10,000 words of nothin but porn WHEN is the last time i wrote this much porn the answer is never
> 
> anyway luv u plz [join me on the blue hellscape](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/) i promise i'm nice
> 
> also [here's a link](https://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/post/170200541632/no-scrubs-rooonilwaazlib-captain-america) to the chapter post plz reblog it thx

By the time they stumble through the door into their apartment, Steve’s halfway out of his overcoat, his tie hanging undone around his neck. Bucky whips it off, his tie and his scarf in one, and shoves his overcoat off his shoulders and onto the floor. Then he releases Steve, stares at him for one long second before turning to close and lock the door.

Steve swallows, waits for him. This is not a new procedure; there are six locks on their door, and it isn’t just Bucky who wants them. If Steve didn’t trust Bucky so absolutely, he’d probably check all of them when Bucky turns back to him; luckily he does, so when Bucky advances on him he forgets all about the locks, opens his arms and lets Bucky lean in.

Bucky kisses him, slow, stepping in until his thighs just brush Steve’s. He lays a hand, deliberate, at Steve’s waist, the dip of it, his other hand cupping Steve’s chin, angling his head.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” Steve asks. For some reason it’s important, that Bucky had a good time. Neither of them are really crowd people, anymore.

They hadn’t turned any lights on when they’d come in. Bucky had left the light on in the kitchen, though, and in this dim gold light Bucky looks the best he has all night. “Yeah, sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs. He tips his head forward, nudges his nose against Steve’s. “Would’ve had a better time here, though. Just you and me.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, his other hand on Bucky’s forearm, “yeah, me too. But then I wouldn’t—wouldn’t have gotten to see you all dressed up.”

Rocking back on his heels, Bucky looks at him, his eyes in shadow. Steve licks his lips, waits for whatever it is he’s about to say. “That’s a fair point, darling,” Bucky finally says. His voice is low, like he doesn’t want to disturb the quiet. “You can dress up for me any time, you know that, right?”

Steve bites his lip. He does know it—and maybe he will, one day, though there’s something about special occasions. He doesn’t have to say anything, though, because Bucky steps close again, one hand on his cheek, to kiss him. It’s sweet, for a moment, until Bucky’s hand moves to the back of Steve’s neck and presses his head into a different angle. Liquid heat drips into Steve’s belly, and he breathes out against Bucky’s lips.

Bucky takes the opportunity to trace his tongue along the ridge of Steve’s front teeth, to catch his lower lip between his teeth and nibble on it. Suddenly Steve’s aflame, the evening finally getting to him, and he yanks at Bucky’s suit jacket, uncoordinated, trying to get it off.

“Gentle, baby, gentle,” Bucky murmurs, catching Steve’s hands with his. “How about you go get undressed, and I’ll do a perimeter check. Be in in a minute.”

Steve leans in for one more kiss, then does as he’s told. In the bedroom he stops for a second to take a deep breath. It’s warm in here, blessedly so, because neither of them can stand waking up cold these days.

He starts with his suit jacket, hanging it on its hanger carefully before pulling off his belt, leaving it on the bureau. Next his cufflinks, which he sets carefully inside the circle of his belt; then he sits, unties his shoes and toes them off. He tucks them under the bed, focusing on being gentle with his clothes because if he focuses on anything else he’ll be non-functional waiting for Bucky.

Unzipping his pants, he hangs them with his suit jacket and hangs it all at the end of the rod in the closet, where it won’t get wrinkled. Finally he unbuttons his shirt and slides it off his shoulders, leaving it in a pile on the floor under the hanging rod, where they toss everything for the dry cleaner. He’s pretty sure the thing is too sweaty to be worn again.

He catches a glimpse of himself, blushing, in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. He looks—good, admitting it to himself—already half-debauched, his hair a mess, his lips red and wet.

Hearing Bucky’s footsteps outside the door, he shuts the closet door and turns. Should he sit on the edge of the bed? Stand? Lie down? He’s just crossing to the bed when the door opens, and he takes half a step sideways, hesitating.

Bucky doesn’t look at him until he’s turned and shut the bedroom door, locked that too. When he finally does turn, he falls back against the doorway, placing a hand over his heart. “Fuck,” he says, looking at Steve. “Baby, sweet thing, honey—look at you.”

Steve’s face feels hot—his whole body feels hot. He watches, chewing on his lip, as Bucky walks closer, his shoes clacking on the wood floor. Bucky reaches for him, pulling his hands back at the last moment. “Can I?” he asks. “Oh, honey love, can I touch you?”

“Please, Bucky,” Steve whispers. He’s breathing hard and Bucky hasn’t even touched him yet; his corset pulls tight at his ribs when Bucky places his hands, deliberate, at the narrowest part of him. Steve breathes out, wobbling a little as Bucky’s thumbs swipe down, over the mesh panels, tracing at the spot just below his belly button.

Unable to help himself, Steve sways in for a kiss. Bucky obliges, petting at his hair with one hand, the other still running all over his body. His palm keeps returning to the dip of his waist, like he can’t believe how narrow he is there. Steve is practically panting, his skin tingling all over, his nipples two points of electricity, his dick so hard it hurts a little. He can’t stop wondering how they look, the two of them, Bucky still in his suit and shoes and everything, here against Steve, so—so feminine, so naked even though he’s technically still wearing clothes.

Finally Bucky pulls back to speak again, his voice gone deep. It makes goosebumps rise all over Steve’s skin. “Get on the bed.”

Steve goes, shuffling up a little until he’s ensconced in the pillows at the head of the bed, half-reclined. He’s shivering, a little, anticipatory, as Bucky walks to the end of the bed and stops there to undress. Jacket, bowtie, cufflinks, belt, shoes, socks. He takes off his shirt before his pants, leaving him in just his white undershirt and boxer briefs. The sleeves of the shirt and the legs of his underwear are stretched tight against his bulk, and Steve swallows. His own panties are feeling tight, though not in the same way. For a second, Bucky pauses, rakes his eyes up Steve’s body. He rounds the bed and opens the bedside table drawer, tossing the bottle of lube onto the mattress next to Steve’s hip. Then he returns to the foot of the bed, reaching up and back to take hold of his collar and pull off his undershirt.

Then, finally, finally, Bucky’s naked, and if Steve has an aesthetic appreciation for him in a suit it’s nothing, nothing to his appreciation of Bucky’s unclothed form. Now that Steve’s—bigger—his and Bucky’s noses are even with one another. But Bucky is thick in all the ways that Steve is not: wrists and neck, waist and cock. He—he takes up space.

Bucky kneels up on the foot of the bed. Steve takes a deep breath in, not really thinking about it as he reaches up and takes hold of the headboard. Between his ankles, Bucky stops, smiles at him, reaches out and traces two fingers up each of Steve’s ankles. His fingers are smooth—or the stockings are smooth—and his eyes track slowly up Steve’s body. “Good,” he says, nodding to his hands wrapped tight around the headboard. “Leave your hands there, sweet thing.”

Steve bites his lip, trying not to squirm or beg or move his hands even if he really desperately wants that. His stomach is jumping—he doesn’t know why; this isn’t the first time he’s dressed up for Bucky.

His palms are hot on Steve’s knees, now, his fingers gently wrapped around his legs. Steve rubs his knees together, watching as Bucky shuffles closer. Gently, Bucky traces his fingertips around the upper edge of Steve’s right kneecap, up his thigh. He presses his thumb down on one of Steve’s freckles, slides his hand up a little more to trace the edge of his stockings.

“Honey,” he murmurs. “Baby, darlin’. Can I sit here?”

Breathing in, Steve lets his legs fall open. Immediately Bucky shuffles into the space he’s created, his hands still on his thighs as he leans in to kiss him. Sighing, Steve can’t help wiggling a little as Bucky’s hands slide up to his hips, hooking one of his legs over Bucky’s back. “Bucky,” he breathes. “Bucky—baby, please.”

Bucky’s left hand spasms funny on Steve’s hip, maybe bruising his pelvis. It feels—good, electric. Bucky sits back. “Say that again.”

“Please,” Steve says immediately, “please, Bucky—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Steve blinks at him, trying to collect his thoughts. It’s kind of difficult, with Bucky’s body holding his legs apart, looming over him, blocking out the light. Bucky’s eyes are dark on him, which is making things even worse. “I—baby,” he finally says, “please.”

Bucky groans, so deep in his throat it’s more like a growl. “Yeah, my honey,” he purrs, “that’s what I wanted.” He pulls on Steve’s hips, lifting him, settling him in his lap. “Oh, sugar, I can’t believe this is all mine. You’re so sweet to me, baby.” He leans over Steve, kissing him deep.

Sighing into his mouth, Steve presses up into Bucky’s hands. Bucky’s fingers knead a little at his ass, trace the edge of the panties.

“Off,” Bucky mumbles into his lips, pulling at the undies. Reluctant, Steve unwinds his legs from around him, preparing for him to pull away and get the panties down and off. But Bucky just grumbles, half-incoherent, running his big palms down Steve’s legs, warm even through the stockings, to wrap his legs back around him.

Steve laughs a little; the physics of this won’t quite work, but he, like Bucky, would rather not let him go. Moaning when Bucky’s hand rubs at him, his hips twitching, Steve tips his head back, lets him at his throat. Bucky hunches down a little, pressing his mouth to the shallow valley where Steve’s corset has given him a little cleavage.

“You got the prettiest tits, sweet love,” Bucky murmurs, sounding drunk. Steve presses his chest up against his mouth, hoping he’ll touch them, but instead all Bucky does is moan, sucking a bruise into Steve’s sternum. One hand presses down on Steve’s dick through his panties, rubbing slow, cruel; the fingers of his other hand slip through one leg hole of the panties to rub, equally slow, equally cruel, at his asshole, just rubbing, not pressing in. Steve tries not to squirm, rocking his hips back and then forward. Bucky makes a sound like he’s been punched. “Kitten, I want you so bad. Can I, lovey? Baby, baby, _please_.”

Goosebumps rise all over Steve’s body as they move together, Bucky’s voice low against his skin. “Give it to me,” he gasps, “gimme— _Bucky_ —”

Suddenly Bucky jerks up, nearly knocking his head on Steve’s chin and making him bite off his tongue. He lets go of Steve with both hands, scrabbling around in the sheets until he finds the lube. Steve watches him, breathless, the way his grey-brown eyes gleam, the curl that falls loose over his forehead, the quick rise and fall of his chest with his breath.

Finally Bucky tosses the lube back down, hooking one thumb in Steve’s panties and pulling them aside so he can press, gentle, with one finger at his ass. Steve’s breath catches, and Bucky looks up at his face. There must be something there, something that Steve hadn’t meant to show him, because he pauses, tips his head a little.

“Alright, honey love?” he asks, his voice soft.

Steve swallows, not knowing how to answer. He lets go of the headboard and reaches for Bucky before remembering he was told not to; but when he pulls back, groping for the headboard again without taking his eyes from Bucky’s face, Bucky just smiles and takes his hands in his. He kisses Steve’s fingertips and guides Steve’s hands to his shoulders. Then he leans over him again, giving him another kiss as his hands fall back to Steve’s groin.

“You touch me however you want, baby,” he says, his fingers already pulling Steve’s undies aside again. “I can’t deny you anything, sweet thing. You just take whatever you want from me, it’s yours. It’s all yours, Steve, my love.”

Wiggling, Steve arches his back and then dips, his thighs squeezing hard at Bucky’s thick waist as he rides down onto his fingers. He gasps, barely able to keep his eyes open, biting his lip as he rolls his hips, taking Bucky’s fingers deeper. “Buck—”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, and his voice has dropped another octave or six. “Yeah, sugar, yeah. Me too.” He adds another finger, practically panting now, his hips hitching just the smallest bit against Steve’s. Steve shudders, his nails scraping at Bucky’s chest. “That’s it, honey love, almost there.”

Steve squirms; he can feel the corset damp from his sweat. “ _Bucky_ ,” he repeats, and his tone must be insistent enough this time because Bucky looks up at him again. “Come on, Bucky, please.”

Staring at him, Bucky catches one of Steve’s hands and kisses at it. “Yeah, sweetheart.” Slow, gentle, he pulls his fingers out of Steve, tangling his fingers in the now hopelessly stretched undies to hold them aside. He shuffles forward, just a little bit more, and leads Steve’s hand to his cheek. Tipping his head sideways, he squeezes Steve’s fingers between his jaw and his shoulder, using his now-free hand to slick up his cock, line himself up.

Then, finally, he’s there, as close as Steve’s ever let another person be, and Steve can’t help but arch up into him, his head dropping back. It’s slow going, as it always is, because Bucky’s so big and so gentle with him. Gasping, Steve gets a handful of Bucky’s hair and holds on, the fingernails of his other hand catching on the plates of his metal arm. He’s shaking, his whole body just on fire, and, oh, this isn’t going to last long. “Buck,” he whispers.

“I know, kitten,” Bucky says, sounding just as wrecked as Steve feels. His right hand clutches, desperate, at Steve’s chest, his left still holding the panties aside. He sits up a little, taking his face out of Steve’s shoulder; his eyes are wild, his lips red like he’s been chewing on them. Steve pulls him in for a kiss, deep, as he sets up a slow, rocking rhythm. “Oh, sweet love— _Steve_ —Christ, you destroy me.” He growls, suddenly, and sits up all the way to look down at Steve. “ _God_ , you look so pretty like this.” With one calculated jerk of his metal hand, he tears the panties off, tossing them aside carelessly and flattening his palm over Steve’s dick, his thrusts never losing their steady rhythm. “Even prettier now.”

Steve drags his lip between his teeth, hoping the pain will distract him from how desperately he wants Bucky. It doesn’t; the pain turns to tingling pleasure and he moans, squirming his hips up into Bucky’s hand and then down onto his cock. Molten gold drips into his belly, squeezed in by the corset, concentrating it, winding it tighter and closer.

Bucky leans back in to mouth at his throat, the place where his collarbones meet. He kisses, gentle. “You think people know?” he asks. His voice is low, dreamy. “You think people know you’re mine?” His tongue licks again at Steve’s throat, up closer to his jaw now, his lips closing on the spot below Steve’s ear. He sucks at his skin, hard enough that Steve knows he’s trying to leave a mark. It won’t last, not even until morning, but it drenches Steve in heat nonetheless, knowing that Bucky wants the whole world to know he’s not for them.

It hits him, sudden, hard; he shouts, maybe, as his whole body clutches tight to Bucky, his shoulders, his waist, his cock. Bucky growls, grabbing at him, his hips snapping hard against Steve, jostling him against the headboard as he comes, emptying himself into Steve’s body.

Suddenly it’s over; the room is quiet but for their quick breaths, Bucky’s body loose and heavy on Steve’s. Steve feels so good his skin is almost sore with it, and he winds his arms and legs closer around Bucky, eyelids drooping.

“God,” Bucky finally mumbles, his breath hot and damp across Steve’s already hot, already damp skin. “God, sweet love.”

Steve turns his head a little, clumsy, to kiss him. It’s not much of a kiss; mostly their lips just bump into one another’s, soft. “Yes,” Steve says, finally.

Bucky hums a question. “Yes, what?”

Petting at him, Steve wiggles a little, shudders at Bucky still inside him. “Yes,” he says again, “I think people know I’m yours.”

Laughing, his voice husky, Bucky rubs his palm over Steve’s thigh, sticking his fingers under the edge of his stocking. “Good.” Slow, he plants one hand on the bed next to Steve’s shoulder and pushes himself up, just enough to look down at him. “Oh, honey.” Steve just lies there, lets him look. “Your corset’s ruined.”

Steve grins, hitches his leg tighter around Bucky’s waist again. “It’s okay,” he tells him. “I bought two.”

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr dot hell](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> [reblog the fic's post plz thx <3](https://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/post/169480935802/no-scrubs-rooonilwaazlib-captain-america)


End file.
